


take you down with me

by sebfish



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Gags, Infidelity, M/M, Mentions of exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebfish/pseuds/sebfish
Summary: “Does Sid know you’re here?”“Shut up,” Malkin growls, shoving him up against the wall of Claude’s hotel room.Claude grins into the kiss, sharp and brittle, and lets himself sink into it.





	take you down with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thebes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thebes/gifts).



> I saw your likes and kinks and was inspired, so this is something. 
> 
> Title from Illenium's "Take You Down". 
> 
> This is a work of fiction and no harm is meant, if you found this by googling your name or someone you know, please go back. Unbeta'd so any mistakes are mine.

“Does Sid know you’re here?”

“Shut up,” Malkin growls, shoving him up against the wall of Claude’s hotel room.

Claude grins into the kiss, sharp and brittle, and lets himself sink into it.

It’s a stupid game he’s playing, taunting Malkin into fucking him, as if they were the kind of people who could afford to fuck up their lives like this.

He likes that Malkin is big enough to wreck him a little, big enough to hold him down and make him take if he wants to.

He’s petty enough to admit too that it gives him a rush to see the glint of the ring on Malkin’s finger, to know that Sidney fucking Crosby was somewhere else, probably at home, while his husband was here, fucking Claude.

He doesn’t know what kind of excuses Malkin gives and he doesn’t care, because it’s not his problem if Malkin wants to fuck up his own marriage.

It was stupid and reckless and would probably end in both of them getting hurt, but he’d known that since the first time he’d shoved Malkin into the wall and kissed him.

Malkin breaks the kiss and shoves up against him, the line of his cock already solid against Claude’s hip.

“Gonna fuck me?”

Malkin shudders against him and digs his fingers in, a little, and Claude already knows he’s going to come out of this with bruises. He grins.

“Got myself ready for you.”

Malkin curses in Russian, something sharp and bitten off, and shoves his hand down the back of Claude’s sweatpants to press at his hole. He shoves two fingers in, easy, and Claude groans and pushes into the stretch.

Malkin pulls his fingers out and steps back, then, and Claude would think that he was calling it off if it wasn’t for the look in his eyes, dark and heated like he wanted to fuck Claude right there against the wall.

“Bed,” he says, and starts stripping as he walks over, quick and perfunctory.

Claude follows, dropping his sweatpants and throwing his shirt on the bed.

 

 

 

Malkin’s kneeling on the bed, already slicking a condom down his flushed thick cock, smile shark-like as he sweeps his eyes over Claude’s body. He looks good too, strong with muscle, even though he tended leaner than most other hockey players. Claude knew firsthand how strong he was.

“How do you want me?” Claude asks, but he’s already laying down on his back and Malkin doesn’t bother answering because Malkin always wants to fuck like this.

He’d think that it’d be easier for Malkin to fuck him without looking at him, but he always wants to fuck face to face even when it’s too much for Claude.

He never says no though, because it’s too much in the best kind of way, the kind that he’d keep if he could, if this wasn’t just stolen moments across hotel rooms and hurried blowjobs at the rink.

He slides a pillow under his hips and then Malkin’s there, pushing his legs apart and pushing his cock, wet with lube, at Claude’s hole.

Claude scrambles to get his knees up and spread as Malkin pushes in, groaning too loud at the feeling. He’s open enough that it’s an easy slide in, but it’s also been a while and Malkin isn’t small.

“Shh,” Malkin says, stilling as he bottoms out, “unless you want team to know.”

“Fuck me,” Clause says, wrapping his legs around him and digging his heels in.

Malkin doesn’t say anything but complies, drawing out to start fucking into him in quick strokes that light him up from the base of his spine. He arches into it, pushing up against him and meeting his rhythm.

“Quiet,” Malkin hisses, and he realizes that he’s groaning almost without meaning to.

There’s a chance that the team could hear, Simmer next door or someone else walking down the hallway. Provy, maybe, and wouldn’t that be something, for him to find his captain getting fucked by the alternate captain for the Pittsburgh Penguins.

He lets himself be more noisy, grinning up at Malkin who’s flushed with sex and sweaty with exertion, frowning at him.

“Shut up,” Malkin grouses, then he’s stretching up long enough to grab something off the bed.

It’s Claude’s t-shirt, and he only sees it for a second before Malkin is shoving a corner of it between his lips, gagging him.

Claude closes his eyes and groans, muffled by the fabric, and it’s hotter than it should be to have the neutral flavor of the fabric and the damp texture of it in his mouth, to know that he can make as much noise as he wants this way.

He can’t always goad Malkin into this, but it’s always good.

He sinks into the feeling of Malkin fucking him, the friction of his cock inside him and the sound of skin against skin. He jolts in surprise when he feels Malkin’s hand on his cock and opens his eyes to see Malkin watching him intently.

He’s so close that it only takes a few strokes from Malkin’s hand before he’s coming, come striping across Malkin’s hand and his stomach. Malkin curses and stiffens above him as he comes, driving his hips in deep as he spills inside the condom.

Claude flops down on the bed, feeling boneless, and barely remembers to pull the shirt out of his mouth. The corner is wet with spit and he throws it aimlessly off the bed.

Malkin chuckles and pulls out of him, then flops next to him.

“When do you need to go?” Claude asks.

Malkin shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “Soon.”

 

 

 

Malkin waits until most of Claude’s team has left for dinner to leave, because it’s a stupid idea but they can at least try not to get caught.

He boxes Claude against the door before he goes, kissing him long and deep enough that Claude’s almost tempted to drag him back for another round.

Even after a shower he looks well-fucked, and Claude doesn’t know what he’ll tell Sid but it’s hard for him to care when he’s feeling loose and well-fucked too.

“See you on ice,” he says before he leaves, smirking.

Claude goes to meet the rest of the team, grinning at their chirps for being late.

“Have fun with your girl?” Simmer asks as Claude takes a seat, smile knowing even if he suspects all the wrong things.

“Something like that,” Claude says, and lets the chatter of the team wash over him. There’s a game to win tomorrow and he’ll see Malkin and Sid both there, and he’s looking forward to it.

 

 

 

“Does your husband know where you are?” Claude taunts, and Sid shoves him against the wall, sharp and vicious, biting a kiss against his mouth.

They’re at Claude’s house in Philly this time, and he doesn’t know what excuse Sid gave Malkin, and he doesn’t really care.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sid says, digging his fingers sharply into Claude’s sides, and Claude grins like he’s winning. 


End file.
